Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.

What ARE mine are the original characters and the Darkmen tongue

Returning Home

All was quiet throughout the canyon as the pair continued through the darkness. The wind breathed lightly through the scattered grasses, its taste dry and warm on the rider's lips. She breathed in the harsh air, inhaling the familiar scent of sweet grass and wild herbs. By the gods, she had been away from home for too long.

Hravan walked along the familiar path for hours, shying away from the shadows and keeping along the moonlit ground. Tossing his head tiredly, he rounded a bend, halting his weary gait, and waited for his rider to wake.

Jolted from her half-sleeping trance, his rider shook herself and raised her hand to the darkened canyon wall, speaking words in an ancient tongue.

: K'lâ Anâr Ranâ, têrê pantâ kweni et-kuiwê :

Strapped to her palm was a reflector, and when her hand was raised, the moon light shining into the canyon was directed into a single beam passing through the shadowed wall. A rumbling began deep inside the canyon, becoming a dull roar that seemed to split the walls asunder as an opening appeared within the solid rock, large enough for her and Hravan to pass through.

Gently spurring the horse's side, they entered the even darker gloom under the mountain. Down, down they went, deeper and farther into the darkness. Both knew these shadows: they had played in them as child and colt, had grown to maturity within the security found at the end of their road; neither had need for a light or guiding source, each knew the paths and turns of the cavern as old friends.

Each change of direction brought the pair closer to exhaustion. Wearily, the eyes of the rider closed in fatigue, unflinching even as a cold arrowhead edged its way into her neck.

Rohtalië i norë i Araquendi nar marta fir anqualë mai námanta ná úro: mana esselya, ettelëa?

Eyes of silver flickered in the torchlight, their usual color dimmed in weary.

Istalyë ilya essi nosselva, Morilír, a-nanta ú-enyalyë onórelya?

A dry, weak laugh sounded from the rider's throat, as she held out a hand to the light he carried:

"Your eyes are weak if they deceive you now, titta onóro."

"Sálindë!" cried the guard, lowering his bow and grasping her hand with one of his own, "I had not thought to look for you for three weeks more; have you urgent word for Áravelca?"

"Yes," came the exhausted reply.

Gently, he eased his sister out of her saddle, carrying her up a darkened stair of stone, into the guard house. There, he passed into the bedchamber, laying her gently upon the light blanket.

"Sérë sin, Sálindë; I will watch over Hravan, and send word to the Keep. Áravelca will know of your return."

"Thank you, brother," she whispered softly, turning her head into her pillow and falling into a deep slumber.

Leaving her to dream, Morilír took himself from the room, climbed down the stone ladder, and ran his hands along the sweaty horse's flank.

Even with sweat dripping from him, the Elf had to admit that his sister's horse was a sight to behold. Blacker than the gloom of under the mountains, the horse stood at sixteen hands, taller than most of Áravelca's stallions. A mane and tail of sable hair, not coarse as most horses, but with fine and soft strands.

Carefully, he set about grooming the exhausted animal, currying him and brushing his face gently, taking great care with picking his diamond-hard hooves. When he was covered in stray horse hair and sweat, Morilír slapped the stallion on the rump in a friendly manner, knowing he could understand such an emotion. Placing water and sweet wild grass before him, Morilír left him to his grazing and once again climbed the stone ladder, this time to the highest point of the sentry-post.

There, at the top, was a beacon made from wood and oil, ready and set to be lit, to send messages to the Keep. Snatching a tinderbox from a convenient niche, he kindled the fire, the tendrils of smoke trailing above him into the crevices and fissures of the mountains. Within seconds, the piled kindling ignited, causing the wood to burn brightly, its brilliance shining out as a beacon among the darkness.

Miles away, the farthest outpost of the Keep lit its answering fire, and Morilir took a specially-made piece of timber from another niche; when forced to burn, it would cause the flames of the blaze to turn red, a signal that Sálindë had returned from her charge. Silently, he fed the wood to the flames, standing immobile as he watched the flames of Haira Osto turn silver in answer. It would not be long until an escort arrived to take his sister to the Keep, he reflected, but it will be enough for her strength to return to her.

A.N.:

: words : Avarin

Bold Quenya

Sálindë meaning "Firesong"

Morilír meaning "Blacksong"

Hravan meaning "Wild"

Translation:

: K'lâ Anâr Ranâ, têrê pantâ kweni et-kuiwê : By the Light of the Sun and Moon, the way opens for those Awakened (NOTE: this is a LOOSE translation of Avarin)

Rohtalië i norë i Áraquendi nar marta fir anqualë mai námanta ná úro: mana esselya, ettelëa? Those who trespass the land of the Áraquendi are fated to die a painful death if their desire be evil: what is thy name, stranger?

Istalyë ilya essi nosselva, Morilír, a-nanta ú-enyalyë onórelya? You know all the names of our kin, Morilír, yet you recall not your sister?

Titta onóro Little brother

Haira Osto Far-City, name of an outpost